


Craquelure

by sheswanderlust



Category: Hannibal (TV) RPF
Genre: Fluff, French language kink, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-10
Updated: 2015-10-10
Packaged: 2018-04-25 19:07:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4972852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheswanderlust/pseuds/sheswanderlust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"There was something charming in the way the British man’s tongue slid at ease between words, curling around sounds, tone rising and falling pitch perfectly."</i>
</p><p> </p><p> Mads loves when Hugh speaks French.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Craquelure

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by a Tumblr post, precisely this one http://granpappy-winchester.tumblr.com/post/71825033787/hugh-teaching-mads-to-speak-french.  
> English is not my first language and neither is French, so sorry in advance for possible mistakes in the fic.  
> I hope you will like this! :D

“Oui… Oui, j’attend“ (*Yes… Yes, I hang on)

Mads watched as Hugh ran a hand in his hair, tapping impatiently his foot on the wooden floor of the living room. He could not avoid noticing how handsome he was, wearing the grey hoodie he had lent him. It was two or three sizes too big for him, and the sleeves were definitely too long, but this was part of the appeal. The grey of the cotton made the grey of Hugh’s eyes stand out even more. Mads loved that nuance of the Englishman iridescent eyes. He loved the blue tone, he loved the green tone, but he could not understand how could people overlook that grey nuance, as if it was less important, uglier than the others. Mads saw in it a stormy sea, a clouded sky, the ghostly British fog, the crowded streets of London, a mysterious infinite that he wanted to explore. That grey was the chromatic representation of Hugh’s appeal itself, his bright cleverness, his lingering elegant charm. 

“C’ètait le vol de ligne AX538, de Londre à Toronto, oui“ (*it was the flight AX538, from London to Toronto, yes) 

Mads raised his head in hearing again Hugh’s voice. He looked ad his tired expression. He had arrived from London that morning, to start filming Hannibal’s second season. Unfortunately, the French airline company had lost his suitcase and Hugh had been left with only his hand luggage. He had not expected such a cold weather in Toronto and his sweaters were probably somewhere in Australia or Mexico, so Mads had lent him that grey hoodie. Hugh had spent the whole day at the telephone with the airline’s call center, trying to understand whether and when he would obtain his luggage back. Mads could not help but being angry with them; he would have wanted to spent a beautiful day with his boyfriend, after so many weeks far away from him. He would have wanted to drag him on the couch and kiss him for hours, reflecting on the incredible fact that every time Hugh returned in his arms, he was more stunning than the time before. Most of all, he would have wanted for him to rest after the long travel, but given the situation it seemed impossible.

“Oh, bien. Mercì! … Oui, vouz pouvez me l’envoier ici a Toronto… Un moment, j’ai l’adresse…“ (*Oh, fine. Thank you! … Yes, you can send it to me here in Toronto … Just a moment, I have the address…) 

Hugh scrambled through his agenda to find the address of the house he and Mads were staying in. Mads laid his head on the back of the couch, still looking at him. Hugh’s French was flawless; one could not realize that he was from the other side of the Channel. From his school-level French, Mads could only admire him. He had always loved the sound of the French language, but after finishing high school he had stopped practicing it and thus he could hardly go beyond the circumstantial sentences useful in everyday conversation. The Dane wondered how the other could speak it so well; if he was not mistaken, Hugh had once told him that his family has a house in France and thus he had grown up speaking it often there. Mads definitely had to investigate more the matter, because honestly: hearing Hugh speaking French was captivating him.  
There was something charming in the way the British man’s tongue slid at ease between words, curling around sounds, tone rising and falling pitch perfectly. Mads found himself biting his lower lip, listening to Hugh as he gave his Toronto address to the person on the other side of the line and discussed about some bureaucratic matter regarding the shipping of his re-found suitcase. 

“Bien sur. Quand sera-t-il ici à Toronto? … Mercì. Au revoir“ (*Of course. When will it be here in Toronto? … Thank you. Goodbye.)

Hugh ended the call, his lips curled in one of his first smiles of the day.

“They found it!“ he exclaimed to Mads, joining him on the couch. "It is in New York, not so far, luckily" explained, curling himself against the older man’s side. Mads tightened his arms around him in a sweet hug. 

“What a pity, I was enjoying hearing you speak French“ commented, leaving a kiss on his boyfriend’s pale neck. “I had forgotten that you could speak it so perfectly”

Hugh smiled, laying his head on the Dane’s shoulder. "Thank you. I would like to speak it more often, but I had not spent a lot of time in France, in the last years." 

“I don’t remember exactly what had you told me; you learnt it while staying at your house in France, right?” Mads tried to recall, while slowly brushing his fingers against Hugh’s back. 

“Yes” Hugh nodded. “Well, actually I studied it at school since I was six, but I speak it fluently because we used to spend a big part of our holidays in France. My parents knew many families in the surroundings, so we were basically throwing or attending lunches and dinners for the whole time. And obviously Jack, Kate and I had a lot of friends there.” he recalled. 

“Mmh” Mads caresses moved from Hugh’s back to his brown curls. “Only friends?” he asked, curious, a bit of jealousy in his voice. 

Hugh smiled and said nothing for some moments, his head focused on the relaxing feeling of Mads fingers in his curls. “… I had a French boyfriend, actually, once” he confessed, his eyes half-closed, his head thrown on Mads shoulder. 

Mads let an unpleased sound but did not stop smiling. “Who?” he asked.

“François” said Hugh. “He was two years older than me. He was from the same town in Provence where we have our house, and we met there. He then moved to Paris to study at the university. We have been together for one year, I think”

“I feel the strong urge to… eat him” half-joked Mads. 

Hugh laughed at his boyfriend’s jealousy. He raised his head and placed a light kiss on Mads lips. 

“I prefer Danish men” murmured. 

The older man smirked and kissed him again, his fingers finding their natural place on the other’s slim hips. God, how much had he missed him. They spent some time just like this, kissing quietly, without the urge of doing something more, happy just to be together again. The living room of their rented house was silent, the only sound was the fire cracking in the fireplace. Outside, the snow fell to the ground in the dark evening. Mads could not help thinking about the many dinners filmed with the snow falling outside the window, beside the table of Hannibal’s dining room. It was such a similar and yet different atmosphere: similar, because of the snow and because, well, they were Will and Hannibal; different, because there were no murders, no plotting, no lies. There were just he and Hugh, and that was everything he wanted. 

“You could help me with my lines in French, what do you think?” 

Hugh nodded at Mads question, without stopping to caress his chest, covered by a red Adidas striped jacket. 

“I would like to. And we could open that wine bottle I saw somewhere in the kitchen” added. 

Five minutes after, they were again on the couch, with glasses of red wine and scripts. They discussed for a while about their characters’ development. The beginning of the second season was a crucial point for both Will and Hannibal and they wanted to rend it perfectly. It was strange not to have many scenes together in Hannibal studio, with Will at the Baltimore Hospital for the Criminally Insane and the murderer/psychiatrist carrying on his life undisturbed. Hugh could already feel the claustrophobic feeling of being constantly closed in a cage or in a small room, as his character would be for the first part of the season. He took a sip of wine, his gaze unfocused. Mads seemed to understand what he was thinking about. 

“Will is going to be out of there. You are going to be out of there” he murmured, taking his free hand and closing it between both of his. 

Hugh nodded. “Quel est le problem avec tes rèpliques?” chiese, cambiando argomento. (*What’s the problem with your lines?)

Mads took the second episode’s script and browsed through the pages, already filled with handwritten notes, untidy words written in black on the edges. Hugh’s script was filled with notes, too, but in a neater, blue-inked handwriting. 

“Ok, here is the first one” he stopped on a page in the first part of the script. “ “There may be trace evidence preserved in the _craquelure_ ”. How do you pronounce it? “ He repeated the word a few times, before Hugh stopped him. 

“No, ok, you are saying it wrong”

“Damn Hannibal, why does he always have to act snob with his flawless French?” complained the Dane. 

“Because he is Hannibal” laughed Hugh. “It is _craquelure_ ” said then, with the correct pronounce, the “r” graciously rounded. 

Mads looked at his lips, the correct pronounce quickly fading from his mind. 

“ _Craquelure_ ” tried again. 

“No, _craquelure_. Listen to me instead of staring at my lips” the British smirked. 

“ _Craquelure_ ” 

“Ok, wait”. Hugh took the older man’s script and a pen. “You are pronouncing the word as it was written like this” He wrote the word “craquelure” misspelling it. “But it is not written like this. You don’t have to do that sound at the end of the word. It’s _craquelure_ ”

“ _Craquelure_ ” Mads tried, he really tried, but firstly, it was a fucking difficult word for a Danish speaker, and secondly, he really could not stop looking at Hugh’s lips. 

“You’re almost there”

“ _Craquelure_ ”

“No, you’re doing it wrong again” said Hugh. “ _Craquel-_ “

He was not able to finish, because Mads kissed him. The Dane brushed his lips against the younger man’s and then bit delicately at his lower lip.  
They maintained the contact for a while and Hugh let out a quiet moan.  
Mads distanced himself just enough to talk, but still closer enough so that Hugh felt his lips vibrate against his when he spoke. 

“Je veux faire l’amour avec toi” murmured the Dane. (*I want to make love with you)

Those Danish accented French words made Hugh feel weak. 

Silence. 

“Moi aussi” (*me too)


End file.
